


Shattered Hope

by YourRisingStorm



Category: Furry (Fandom)
Genre: Drinking, Explicit Language, Gen, Innuendo, Recreational Drug Use
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-10-03
Updated: 2014-10-03
Packaged: 2018-02-19 18:38:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,782
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2398721
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/YourRisingStorm/pseuds/YourRisingStorm
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Just a story for my character, Jazz. It's a furry story tied in with reality. Don't read if that's not your cup of tea. In my twisted imagination, anything and everything will happen. And he is Canadian like me, so don't hate the story if a lot of focus is directed to this nation in particular.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Shattered Hope

19 February 2013  
0600HRS UTC  
1030HRS Local Time

Location: Kandahar Airfield, Afghanistan…

War on Terrorism, Afghanistan. Welcome to Hell. What other word could be used to describe such a ghastly and dangerous environment such as a warzone where you have to constantly be checking your six? Fighting against an enemy that blends in with the civilian population is difficult enough and the sporadic guerilla attacks are always precise and lethal. The Taliban are none less than renegade, militant Islamist extremist forces who are disciplined to the point that they would run at you with a bomb strapped to their chest and suicide, detonating the bomb in hopes of killing as many soldiers. Jihad, holy war in the name of Allah. This is the enemy we are fighting against, and they have no insignias on themselves to identify the Taliban from the civilians; we are fighting a masked enemy. Who is winning? Unknown…

My name is Corporal Christopher Jasper Maximus Risingstorm of the Canadian Joint Task Force 2 special forces and counter-terrorism unit, transferred from the 3rd Battalion Princess Patricia Canadian Light Infantry. I currently am a nineteen year old Golden Alaskan malamute and have been affiliated with the Canadian military for a little over three and a half years now and am on my first tour in Afghanistan. Due to my very accurate marksmanship skills and my ability to fire ambidextrously, I was assigned as a sniper and given a license to kill. The reason why I say that is because when I am deployed, it is only to kill. Considering Canada has the best sniper team in the world, and my shot is the best of that team, the entire International Security Assistance Force enjoys bragging about possessing the best sniper in the world—as long as the Russian ex-military operative, Pavel Petrov, does not count. I tend not to be like that… I am rather quiet and humble as I really do not accept any praise they give me. How can I? I am a bloodthirsty, warmongering, remorseless killer who squeezes the trigger with a beating passion to eliminate my target.

The unit JTF 2 is nothing like I have ever thought it was even about when I joined up; honestly, I initially assumed we were commandos like in the Captain America comics who were badass and constantly given praise for their acts, or like the Spetsnaz who are brutal, hard-core beasts that everyone knows and fears. Actually, it’s the exact opposite. We justify our actions as seeing ourselves as protectors and not avengers; we are quite professionals who exist to serve Canada, doing what the Government tells us to do but by our nature secretive as we need to be discreet in order to prevent our adversaries from modifying their methods to counter the very forces designed to defeat them. In fact, we don’t get any recognition or fame for what we do… which is quite shocking because the British Special Air Service, Russian Spetsnaz, and United States Navy SEALs get credit for everything they do. JTF 2… we do it solely that Canadians can sleep at night. Our Public Affairs Officer once stated that “Canadians can take great comfort in the knowledge that as an integral part of Canada’s Special Operations Forces community, JTF 2 stands on guard 24 hours a day to defend Canadians, and Canadian interests at home and abroad.”

As a sniper, I was assigned a spotter to assist with ensuring my calibrations are correct and to cover my six when I am in prone and focused on a target. His name is Sergeant Darius Reeves, a real rough ‘n tough Rottweiler who is quite the delightful fellow so long as he is not cussing all the time and trying to advantage of everyone on the base. Most often, we do not see eye-to-eye and that results in frequent arguments that he attempts to cause, but naturally I side with his opinion and dispel such intense tension. Darius would brag forever about how many girls he has had sex with—which is something that I am in the opposite end of the boat of— in spite of having a wife and four children. He also is bisexual as he also enjoys lying with guys which constantly puts me significantly on the edge; I am not homophobic or anything but I was not very appreciative when he came onto me when he was really drunk one night. But when he discovered how innocent I appear to be, he left me alone… yet I was given the nickname of “Baby Boy” from him, and have been that to him always.

Thankfully, the Lord is generous enough to preordain my call-sign to be “Legolas” as we all have fictional character call-signs which we are allowed to have printed on our helmets. Reeves was given the operation name of “Daredevil” for self-explanatory reasons. The unit commander, Brigadier-General Denis Thompson, has “Optimus Prime” for his call-sign and my good friend, Master Sergeant Wesley Penner, is “Master Chief” for various reasons. There are also exceptions to the call-sign protocol but mostly are such like: Wolverine, Raz Agul, Rambo, Statham, McLean, Hannibal, Christmas, Ironhide, Valkyrie, Kirk, Maverick, Zeus, Cody, Windu, Caboose… everyone seemed pleased with the system. Of course, there were the usual military nicknames: Stinger, Weasel, Boomer, Matchstick, Striker… that are used for call-signs too.

Due to my invaluable skills, I was assigned to the Immediate Response Task Force—led by JTF 2— which is the highest readiness task force available to the Government of Canada. Our primary focus is counter-terrorism operations, be it domestic or international. And that has ended me up in this hole, somewhere in the Middle East fighting men in dresses with AK-47s running around with them held in the air… these were my initial thought when I first perceived the names “al-Qaeda” and “Taliban”. I have to admit, I now respect my enemy. Like any special forces unit I have come across, they are brutal, swift and lethal. This is a real threat that is ravenous for power and control, and they will not hesitate to kill you if for the slightest moment you waver; they are not to be underestimated no matter how primitive their weapons or methods are. They are trained to kill… they may not be as skilled as we are, but are vicious and armed to the teeth. My primary tasking—eliminate their leaders. 

It sounds easy, but it is not. When on a mission, you have to be quieter than a ninja in spite of all the bramble and thickets around you. One false move and the entire enemy camp is on alert, the mission is compromised, and you could possibly be killed. Upon locating a place to set up point, you'd best be unseen and wary of civilians who may or not be Taliban operatives who will go wandering around for absolutely no reason at all. As soon as you have your sniper rifle calibrated, you have only one shot or the enemy will be alerted to your presence. Precision is everything, perfection is the mission always. This is mostly why Reeves and myself get all the high-priority missions is because we have a kill ratio of 1:0 all the time. Nearly anyone can say that they rarely miss, but I can say “I never miss” and everyone on base can all vouch that I have not missed a shot. I always go for the kill: head or chest. No matter what weapon I have in my hand, the job is to go for the kill as long as it legal proceedings. I can even turn a pistol with terrible accuracy and recoil into a potent firearm.

What does it matter? Most people back at home believe I am going to end up in a coffin, eyes rolled back with pale skin and blue, lifeless lips, frozen in a moment of perplexity and fear. Even I wonder at times if I will survive to see the dawn of a new day… our missions are endless, and time and time again, the Rear Admiral of the Navy S.E.A.L.S. opts to send in JTF 2 above his own troops. And the Taliban just grow more and more fierce as the time goes by, and al-Qaeda steps up it attacks succeeding the death of every al-Qaeda operative. The fighting is intense, the opponents fierce… thankfully, Joint Task Force 2, trained me how to overwhelm my enemy be it sniping or hand-to-hand combat. Nonetheless, one false move and you are dead… that's just how things work out here in the warzone. After roaming through constant stress-filled environments, it is always a relief when your boots are on the tarmac of the base… it feels like you got home safely.

Kandahar Airfield is where we primarily operate out of, while our headquarters location is classified—that said, we are housed in a small fortified camp quite close to the Sikorsky UH-60L Blackhawk hangars as those birds are our primary mode of transportation unless our commanders opt to use another method of transportation. All our training, living, and daily activities are conducted here although assignments are given following the Navy SEALs commanding officer’s orders. We are positioned close to the tarmac for any immediate responses to a crisis as we also deal with mass killings and terminate the executioners with extreme prejudice. In this environment, you do not want to be caught sympathizing with the people; the enemy blends in with them. Unless you are me... I sympathize with everyone, even our enemy. Yeah, it is not an advantageous thing to take on, and it is a dangerous thing to do: as soon as I am caught sympathizing with the people of Afghanistan, a Taliban fighter rushes me from out of nowhere. Well, at least Reeves watches my six. Although when it comes to going on a mission, it is almost as if an insanity seizes my mind, and my sympathizing becomes a need to bleed the enemy and put a bullet into them. At least Viper Squad—the special forces syndicate I have been assigned to—seem to appreciate this madness in me.

Our squad commander, Lieutenant Adam “Bolt” Graves—an American White shepherd— of the United States Navy SEALs classified Naval Special Warfare Development Group, is a top-notch, no-nonsense officer who follows the book by the letter which makes other troops resent him. He is quiet, calculating, brilliant, and effective; working with JTF 2 is nothing new to him as he has accumulated a lot of his knowledge from our instructors. Graves works best and most efficiently in small group environments and can instantly generate a back-up plan if the mission is compromised in any way. In my few short years of service, I never came across someone with such a sound but quick-thinking mind who can take a broken situation and completely adapt and overcome to each change that occurs. At times, he does not understand the word “fun” and he can he a hardass. I have to admit, but I’m glad Bolt is on my team: he keeps the others in line as they are quite frightened of him and he even has a “Super Bark”—his no-nonsense policy he strictly adheres to.

The second-in-command and tactical strategist is Sub-Lieutenant Felix “Felix the Cat” Montgomery—a purebred calico—of the United States Army Special Forces “Green Berets” 7th Special Forces Group, is a professional killer, tracker, demolitions expert… another words, he is your man if you get stuck in a “sticky” situation. He is authoritative, decisive, quick, and efficient to the highest degree; he has operated with JTF 2 once in his previous military career and he often refers to myself and Reeves as “the Elite of the elite” and most of our tactics we use, he has applied to his combat style. Montgomery works insanely well under pressure, and he is the only one who is ready to go all “Rambo” on the enemy. The USAF teases him constantly and the Lockheed Martin F-16D Viper Block 52 lightweight strike aircraft all have the face of our Felix the Cat on their vertical stabilizers, following the end of the USN Grumman F-14D Super Tomcat interceptor aircraft and the disbanding of the Felix the Cat insignia. Out of every member of Viper Squad, Felix the Cat is the only one with the guts to go head-to-head with Bolt.

Our support unit is Sergeant Steve-Johansson “S.J.” Dukes—an Olde English Bulldogge—of the United States Army Special Forces “Green Berets” 3rd Special Forces Group is a rough n’ tough frontline heavy soldier who prefers to mow down the enemy with the M249 light machine gun he carries around with him everywhere—he is good for overkilling any enemy personnel. He is both short and hot-tempered, loud-mouthed, and obnoxious… don’t let that fool you though: Dukes usually is the defining factor if our position is ever compromised by giving us the munitions we need and proceeding to mow down any Taliban insurgency in the area. This is the first time he has worked with JTF 2 and he constantly voices his contempt for anyone who is not “pure American”… whatever that is supposed to mean. Naturally, I return the favor by calling him “Scarlet” which terribly irks him. He is an odd fellow; naming every piece of clothing and equipment he owns after a lady—he even named every bullet he fires at the enemy and took a permanent marker to inscribe it. “S.J.” is only liked by his mother… no one else can stand him, as even his closest friend will ignore him at times too.

The engineer of Viper Squad is Corporal Jeremy “Blurr” Knowells—a snow leopard—of the United States Army Special Forces “Green Berets” 1st Special Forces Group is generally the guy who can disassemble any piece of enemy equipment and put it back together in mere moments for his own use. He is quite often the loudspeaker of the team as he never keeps any idea to himself and enjoys bragging on no end about things he has done that no one cares about; he has never worked with JTF 2 and likes to audibly voice his opinion against our quiet professionalism and tactics. As one would see, he was given the codename “Blurr” after the annoying, fast-talking Autobot from the old Transformers Generation One cartoon series. Without a care of what others think, he loudly professes his pride for being gay, and claims that once he has finished his term of service, he will be moving into politics. His unending speeches about gay rights is enough to make one want to drive a bullet into their own brain. “Prowl” would had been a more suiting nickname for this obnoxious piece of work… besides his skills, he is pretty much useless. Only S.J. and Knowells are close associates as both are unspeakable excuses for special forces operatives; not even the base commander can stand Jeremy. Alas, he turns around and says that we are homophobic—not true, Reeves is bisexual, and everyone likes him. We just do not enjoy the company of pricks who think they are better than anyone else.

Our field medic is Corporal Asher “the Doctor” Cavilarez—a grey wolf—of the United States Air Force Special Operations Command’s 24th Special Tactics Squadron is the fellow who can repair anything be it a tear in the ligaments, bullet in the abdomen, a clean fractured forearm or anything to do with technology. He is usually always optimistic or smiling just to taunt his enemies, a bit psychotic here and there, rather hot-tempered, and he just wants to escape from his past life—coincidence? That is why he is called “the Doctor” also because his accent is British and his catchphrase is the word “fantastic.” What makes the call-sign all-the-more excellent is because he absolutely does not like Doctor Who. For his twenty fifth birthday, we got him a Sonic Screwdriver just for the reaction that would come from it. Unlike the others, he is quite familiar with JTF 2 and how we operate; he has worked with our special forces team on numerous occasions but he always keeps to his own book of how things should be done. No one ever gets on his bad side… he tends to keep an oddly familiar resemblance to the Ninth Doctor who literally would watch his enemies die without the slightest hint of remorse on his mug. One word for this guy: BADASS.

While any one of us can be an assaulter, our primary assault unit is Specialist Aleksandr “Reznov” Forin—a purebred Siberian husky—who is different from the rest of us. He is actually one of the members of the Russian Federation's elite special forces Directorate “A” of the FSB Special Purpose Center aka “Alpha Group”. Apparently, a team of Alpha Group Spetsnaz were conducting a mission in Kabul discreetly to eliminate a rogue Russian criminal mastermind who escaped down to Afghanistan, and the Kremlin ordered his immediate termination. According to what Forin told us, he found out they were hunting an excommunicated Minister of Foreign Affairs because of his attempts to restore the Christian population in Russia and give support to the other under-minded religious groups. Aleksandr openly refused the orders to terminate the man and he was beaten by his other Russian comrades and left for dead. They carried out the execution and then reported that Forin went M.I.A. When we discovered him, we gave him the medical attention he required and had him working around the base as a “slave” as the other American soldiers called him. But when he earned the favour of the base commander, he was allowed to assist us on our missions as long as we “babysat” him. We gave him the call-sign “Reznov” and ever since, he is loyal, fierce and proudly serves the International Security Assistance Force.

Today, we are going for a fifteen mile run with all our equipment plus payloads around the base to keep us fit and strong as ever. Reznov says that this is nothing and that the Spetsnaz do double the load two times a day… that remark has pissed off S.J. who hates anyone who is not pure American, and since Russia and the States are so distant, our Spetsnaz ally is at the top of the grump’s extensive “Hate List”. Naturally, the bulldog cusses sharply and utters harsh, racist words towards the husky who shrugs it off. We all try to ignore S.J. as he is quite obscene with the gestures and language he is directing towards our Russian friend who, in turn, simply smiles at the jerk who’s face is now beet red.

“Lock it down, Dukes!” Bolt growls, “Or so help me, I will make you patrol the streets of Baghdad with Knowells tomorrow at 0500 hours!”

This got Blurr’s attention quickly, “What?! Why me?”

“Because I hate you.”

We all crack up laughing at that retort! In spite of it being said in good fun and spirit, we ALL knew it was absolutely true and there was not the slightest hint of sarcasm in that statement. And just to add icing on top, the confused snow leopard joins in which causes us to laugh harder… heck, even S.J. has his head back and tears streaming from his eyes, as he too, is aware of what Bolt meant.

“Smarten up, the lot of you!” Bolt suddenly barks loudly and immediately we fall into ranks, “That is more like it. Geared up and ready to go? Excellent. ‘Tenn-hup!”

Without further instruction, we are dead silent and standing at attention, awaiting the next order. Our movements are synchronized to perfection and the envy of every drill sergeant on the base. This is the standard that our squad commander holds us to… any slight imperfection and we are repeating the same practice over until our minds bleed of exhaustion.

“Right face!”

Bang! In perfect harmony, the driving of our boots are one beautiful snap as we turn to face the desired direction. Following a two second silence, Bolt marches to the front of our ranks while Felix the Cat marches to the back and after exactly fifteen paces, they halt in unison.

“Viper Squad, by the left, quick march!”

If anyone complains about marching, I dare you to try it with one hundred pounds of gear on your back and your main weapon in your hands while trying to maintain being in step and in line with the soldier next to you… once you have done that, maybe then will your argument be valid. This is something that we were brutally drilled into doing and now we excel at it… our discipline alone would put the elite Norwegian drill team to shame; our deportment will make them look like cadets.

“Double time!” Bolt suddenly orders as the tempo increases and we begin a steady jog-like march, thus starting our fifteen mile run. He begins to bark the tiresome, repetitive cadence as we run pass the monstrous sky-mammoth Lockheed C-5B Galaxy transport aircraft that is on the airfield today. Once our governments call us back, the lieutenant wants us to rendezvous at some point all together and do the Tough Mudder physical fitness test in our full gear to prove to the British special forces that North Americans are better.

The other special forces squads on base stop their training as their jealous-filled eyes watch us train, while being intimidated at the same time. Lieutenant Graves has a knack to sing while we run and so he calls for an attitude check.

“Viper Squad, tell these bastards who you are and remind them of their place.”

At once, we begin to taunt the other base personnel with this song:

“I am an elite on the beach, I’m a killing machine  
With a need to bleed you when the light goes green  
Best believe, I’m in the zone to be  
From my Yin to my Yang to my Yang Tze  
Put a grin on my chin, come to me  
Cuz I’ll win, I’m one-of-a-kind and I’ll bring Death  
To a place where you’re about to be  
And another river of blood running under my feet

Forged in a fire lit long ago  
Stand next to me, you’ll never stand alone  
I’m the last to leave but the first to go  
Hard core is the only way I know  
I feed on the fear of the devil inside  
Of the enemy faces in my sight  
Aim with the hand, shoot with the mind  
Kill with a heart like arctic ice”

Graves chimed in, “I am a Devil-Dog, I’m marching on.”

“I am a Devil-Dog, I’m marching on,” We echoed back.

“I am a warrior and this is my song!”

“I am a warrior and this is my song!

I bask in the glow of the rising war  
Laid waste to the ground of an enemy shore  
Wade through the blood spilled on the floor  
And if another one stands, I’ll kill some more  
Bullet in the breech and a fire in me  
Like a cigarette thrown to gasoline  
If Death don’t bring you fear  
I swear you’ll fear these marching feet!

Come to the nightmare, come to me  
Deep down in the dark where the devil be  
In the maw in the jaws with the razor teeth  
Where the brimstone burns and the angels weep  
Call to the gods if I cross your path  
And my silhouette hangs like a body bag  
Hope is a moment now long past  
The shadow of death is the one I cast!

I am a Devil-Dog, I’m marching on  
I am a warrior and this is my song  
Hell has no demon I won’t overcome  
I am a warrior and this is my song

Now I live lean and I’m mean to inflict the grief  
And the least of me’s still out of your reach  
The killing machine’s gonna do the deed  
Until the river runs dry and my last breath leaves  
Chin in the air with a head held high  
I’ll stand in the path of the enemy line  
Feel no fear! Know my pride  
For God and country I’ll end your life!

I am a Devil-Dog, I’m marching on  
I am a warrior and this is my song  
Hell has no demon I won’t overcome  
I am a warrior and this is my song  
I made the devil himself turn and run  
I am a warrior and this is my song  
Into the fire I will keep marching on  
HOORAH! VIPER SQUAD! GET SOME!”

Upon finishing our song, we keep running all the while as the heat of the Afghan sun beats down on us, and our equipment is staring to weigh us down, yet we press on. Since our deployment, today is the highest in temperature and the humidity is in extreme conditions, but we believe that Bolt was already aware of this as he has not even broken a sweat yet. Reznov has shut up about the whole deal about the Spetsnaz being able to handle more than our training—perhaps he forgot to factor heat into the equation. In wintry conditions like Russia, it is understandable how he is not used to the sun.

It seemed to be hours on end when Bolt finally orders us to “change to quick-time, quick march” and we automatically started marching which is such a relief on our aching muscles. No one utters a word about the burning sensation in our legs or the dehydration we are suffering, as we continue marching back to our quarters.

“Viper squad, HALT!” Bolt barks loudly and one solid bang is heard after a two second pause, “Retire in line, left turn.”

Sweat is pouring from my brow and I can feel my entire uniform is drenched from the perspiration of whatever amount of water I consumed within the last ten hours, but I still manage to plant my foot down in sync with my fellow brothers.

Bolt smiles, as he is pleased with our performance, “Those fifteen miles were done in two hours eleven minutes and thirty nine seconds. Well done, Vipers. For the remained of the day, you will get out of that that soaked attire and you will scrub your asses till the stench when you pass gas smells like soap. Once you all smell nice, you will work on your uniforms and clean your weapons. There will be a hygiene and a weapon inspection in one hour and a half. You will then go eat lunch and have some quiet time for four hours. You meet back here exactly at 2040 hours and we will commence night operation exercises. While you are doing these tasks, keep your ears open for the codeword ‘Sandstorm’ over the intercom. Upon hearing ‘Sandstorm’, you will drop whatever you are doing, return to barracks, and assemble in front of Blackhawk 4 in full attire in less than fifteen minutes. ‘Sandstorm’ is the codeword for Viper Squad to gear up and prepare for the light to go green. Do you understand?”

“Sir yes sir!” We call out in unison. Although myself and Reeves are Canadian Forces personnel and a simple “yes sir” is how we reply to our bosses… we follow the Americans’ protocol.

“Excellent. You are dismissed. Go hit the showers, ladies.”

We immediately break ranks as it is not a formal dismissal. S.J. loudly declares his relief, “My freakin’ legs were gunna fall off had I hadda marched any further!”

“Exhausted already?” Reznov teases, trying to aggravate the bulldog.

“Why I oughta…!”

The Olde English Bulldogge lunges at the Russian who evades his exasperated quarry and delivers a crippling blow to his chest, putting him flat on his back, winded.

“Sit your ass down, durak…” the Siberian husky reveals a ballistic knife that his Spetsnaz comrades never confiscated from him when they abandoned him, “Next time, this will be in your gut.”

Glancing out the window of our barracks, Daredevil laughs as the small Russian decked Dukes onto the ground with a single blow, “That’s right, Russkie! You put that cunthole in his place!”

I seem to be the only peacemaker in the group as I pull Reznov away from the incapacitated S.J. who remains lying on the ground very still making the same moaning that Loki did after Hulk pummeled him to a pulp in the 2012 Marvel: The Avengers movie. A swift hiss from Felix the Cat gets everyone heading into their barracks—everyone but the winded S.J. who lies there nearly motionless. Without the slightest hint of remorse, the calico drives his foot in S.J.’s side with sheer force.

“Get up, pipsqueak!”

Grumbling and bemoaning, S.J. stands up and shakily walks into the barracks with the second-in-command following close behind. We all break out into a round of applause while he drags himself through the doors, just because we know that he is the biggest simpleton on the base, “S’not funny, ya asswipes!”

Daredevil and Reznov get right to it as per usual, immediately egg him on with insults… which, in turn, escalates into a brawl with every Viper Squad member getting into the fray. I stay on the sidelines and watch as even Felix the Cat begins wildly throwing punches at Blurr who had said something about his mom being a whore—for no reason whatsoever.

Daredevil grins as he wrestles S.J. to the ground, “Yeah, that’s right, Felix. Beat that pussy-hating whelp to a pulp. Reznov, how far do you think we can toss this fat fuck?”

“If we strap him to an Howitzer artillery shell, we might be able to land him in Kabul.” The Russian suggests, “Worth a shot.”

“You hate pussy too!” Blurr squeaks as Felix throws him into a wall, not doing much to help his position.

The Rottweiler is quick to retort to that, “Fuck you, Knowells. I like both dicks and pussies. Pussies are better though.”

“How come you never fucked me then?”

“Because there’s nothing to fuck.”

At once, the brawl stops at that remark and everyone laughs at Blurr while I quietly go to slip away as I spot an irate American White Shepherd heading over to our barracks.

“Officer on deck!” Bolt barks loudly, entering and we all stand at attention, “Pull your useless tail off the ground, Dukes! Forin, Reeves: at least let the Taliban pummel that pussy. All the rest of you, back to your quarters and go about your duties. Do NOT make me come back and find you dickwads screwing around and fighting again or I will neuter every last one of you. Dismissed!”

It’s a funny principle that the military adheres to: “you win and lose as a team”… in other words, if one guy screws up, the whole squad is punished. Most identify it as “unfair” as they cannot understand why the innocent are punished with the guilty. Then again, it is quite understandable that everyone is equally disciplined if the situation involves a brawl; most of the time, everyone else stands around and spectates instead of trying to dissolve the conflict.

I return to my quarters, and quickly grab a quick shower, before getting into some lounging clothes as I pull open my laptop and begin reading my e-mails which more than half consists of spam messages that get deleted anyways. As I skim through them, I come across a message from my ex-girlfriend, Chelsea Astra, who I met up with in high school and got on with once before we got busted by her parents and I was forced to flee. Judging by the colourful metaphors included in her message, I perceive that she had been PMSing at the time just as they normally appear like. She accuses me of getting her pregnant, leaving her, and blah, blah, blah… someone should take a Valium. Perhaps she does not understand that I am on the other side of the world and that if I could I probably would go see her if duty did not come before self. Besides, what would her reaction be if she has seen what I have become: a bloodthirsty advocate of Hell who’s only passion is to drive a bullet into my enemy?

Sighing, I refuse the temptation to reply to her… I have kept to my ignoring of her for the longest time. It is not that I am a bad person… I am just not ready to accept the responsibilities she is ready to force upon me. There is no way I am going to be responsible for someone else’s life—I already have to worry about my squad and other people on the base. Heck, I do not even remember what she looks like now. Well… I have faint memories of what she looked like, all dressed in her lovely satin gown, pressed against the wall… okay, okay! So maybe I DO remember her. But every time I pull the trigger, I release a little more of the love we used to share along with the bullet, and I allow a madness to replace that love.

The chat suddenly pops up and I see a message from Cheesers—that’s what I liked to call her anyways—and the short message asked a question she had been asking me for a long time now: “Jazz… are you avoiding me or something?”

I ignore the question and then I see another message pop up: “Jazzzzzz… you said you will never leave me; why have you abandoned me?” A sad face emoticon was added along with it.

Growling a bit, feeling like a douche bag, I begin typing a response: “It’s complicated…”

Twenty seconds later, I receive a reply, “Jazz! Why have you ignored me for so long? Am I not good enough for you… or did you replace me…?”

“I pursued a military career… I currently am serving overseas in Afghanistan.”

“…Why?”

I debate on whether or not I should tell her; my heart is pounding inside my chest. “It’s complicated…” I opt to type back to her, “Well, I would tell you but it is an extensive story…”

“Attention base personnel! Sandstorm. I say again: Sandstorm.”

Immediately, I tell her I need to go and I close the computer, and begin to suit up, grabbing my McMillan C-15 LRSW sniper rifle and heading out of the barracks, pulling a mask up to cover my face.

**Author's Note:**

> I have not ever joined the military so I just have a general idea based off of movies, soldiers of the Canadian Forces and United States Navy I have met and my experience as an Air Cadet in the Royal Canadian Air Cadet program. Sorry if you disagree with it a lot.
> 
> Oh, and the attitude check is a song by Hard Corps (I think that is the band..?) but just changed up to fit the scenario at hand.
> 
> Anyways, I hope you enjoyed this chapter and I really believe this is my greatest work I have ever done. Feel free to leave feedback. No flames please.


End file.
